"You're pretty...for a dark skinned girl."
Let's break this down. It starts off as a compliment, however the compliment seems to implode upon itself once the looking glass is narrowed.
If I hold value, does that value depreciate once my melanin is evaluated and measured? Surely I'm prettier than any girl you've met in the past five minutes. However, you've single-handedly talked down on my sisters, on my heritage, on your own race by using a single phrase.
Someone once told me that they didn't like dark skinned girls. They told me this as my sent covered their collar, as my face rubbed off on their white button down along with tiny flakes of gold glitter.
If my melanin offends you no one is asking you to stay.
If this is a shaded competition, I do not want to compete.
A good friend of mine once said, "I don't care what they say about dark skinned girls. You're the prettiest one I know."
How is this supposed to make me feel sitting in front of my vanity moisturizing my dark face and staring into my never ending pores? You think I should jump with joy for receiving an honor so astounding?
And to hear those words come from the lips of my own brother. How grand of an accolade this must be.
Is your mother pretty for a single mother?
Your sister pretty for a middle sister?
Words from a confused father: "She's too light to be mine."
When I look into my mothers eyes, I can see the pride she takes in the human beings she created and crafted with her image. That pride has no limitations on the basis of shades and color palettes. I am hers and she is mine.
I try not to address this directly with anger, but I feel as though my people can't hear me otherwise. I don't walk into a bar thinking about being the baddest dark skin I know. I walk in being the best human I can be.
